0csi\j4 



A 




ill 


m i 





Class j:^S :5sb-^.6 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



VERSES BY 
BERTHA GERNEAUX WOODS 



VERSES BY BERTHA 
GERNEAUX WOODS 



^ 



WASHINGTON, D. C. 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 

431 ELEVENTH STREET 

MCMHI 



THE LIBRARY OF 
CONGRESS, 

Two Copies Received 

APR '903 

CoHyi'gnt Entry 

CLASS Oc XXc. No. 

00 PY B. 






' COPYRIGHT, 190J 

BY 

THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY 



TO 

A. F. W. 



Many of the verses contained in this volume are 
repubHshed from The Independent, The Congre- 
gationalist, Scribner's Magazine, The Sunday 
School Times, The Portland Transcript, The CoS' 
mopolitan, Donahoe's Magazine, The Churcliman_ 
Kate Field's IVasIiington, The Nezv York Observ- 
er, Z ion's Herald, The Interior, The Advance 
The Northern Christian Advocate. Yotmg Peo- 
ple's Weekly, The Home Monthly, The Home 
Magazine and Tlie Union Signal. 

B. G. W. 



CONTENTS 



f ! PAGE. 

Who Was It? 13 

Elusion 14 

In the Orchard 15 

Push 16 

Together 17 

A Prayer for the New Year 18 

Arbutus 19 

In the Wood 20 

To a Dandelion 21 

Mayflower 22 

An April Flower 23 

An Awaking 24 

Imprinted 25 

April Days 26 

Johnny Jump Up 2^ 

To a Bluet 28 

Dandelions 29 

The Return 30 

The Coming of Joy 31 

The Oven-Birds 32 

The Maple 33 

A Golden Message 34 

Hilda 35 

God's Little Girl 37 

The Answer 38 

A Search 39 

For Vanity's Sake 40 

When the Leaves Fly 41 

To a Dead Bird 42 

When the Days Grow Long 43 

A Revelation 44 



Contents. — Continued. 

PAGE. 

In Autumn 45 

A Time of Change 46 

Completion 47 

The Close of Summer 48 

Home Coming 49 

The Children's Summer 51 

Indian Summer 52 

The Children's Harvest S3 

After the Summer 54 

A Backward Glance 55 

A Thanksgiving 57 

The Year's Good 58 

I'll Live My Thanks 59 

Thanksgiving 60 

Thankfulness 61 

My Thanksgiving 62 

Under the Roses 63 

Upreaching 64 

An Allegory 65 

The Finding 66 

The Brahmin's Prayer 67 

Afterglow 68 

A Prayer 69 

Misunderstood 70 

Interpretation 70 

Release 71 

In Passing 72 

A Hope y$ 

Assurance 74 

Acclimature 75 

"Not Far from Any One of Us" 76 

A Memory ". yy 

Goodbye 79 

A Discord 80 

Strayed 81 

Presage 82 



Contents. — Continued. 

PAGE. 

By the Roadside 83 

Why I Sing 84 

Tonight 85 

Renunciation 86 

Waiting 87 

At Twilight 88 

Fourscore 89 

Hushed 90 

Room for Two 91 

At Parting 92 

"Whatever He Would Like to Have Me Do" 93 

The Book. . . . : 94 

"Babie Stuart" 95 

To a Long- Ago Maid 96 

Helen Keller 97 

The Child 99 

The Christ-Child 100 

For the Christ-Child lOi 

On Christmas Eve 102 

Christmas Day 103 

Christmas Night 104 

At Christmas Time 105 

The Child of Galilee 106 

Easter Time 107 

To the Crocuses 108 

Awaking 109 

A Resurrection no 

My Hope in 

An Easter Longing 112 

Where Is the Baby ? 113 

Children's Day 114 

For Children's Day 116 

The Children's Day 117 

On Children's Day lig 



VERSES BY 
BERTHA GERNEAUX WOODS 



WHO WAS IT? 

Said the baby to a robin, 

"Birdie, show me how to fly." 

But the robin did not hear her, 
And he flew off toward the sky. 

Said the baby to a skylark, 

"Will you show me, little bird?" 

But the skylark floated past her. 
And he answered not a word. 

Someone — it was not the robin, 
Nor the brown lark from the sky- 

Someone coming in the twilight 
Taught the baby how to fly. 



13 



ELUSION. 

"Baby, stay !" from wildrose hedges 
And along the meadow edges 

Chirp the crickets at their play, 
While the little river flowing. 
Stops a moment in its going, 

Just to echo, "Baby, stay!" 

So she lingers, doubtful, smiling, 
While the odors faint, beguiling. 

From the clover-tops arise. 
And the southern wind upraises 
Gentle heads of meadow daisies 

With imploring golden eyes. 

From the treetops thrushes calling, 
Send a flood of music falling 

To the mosses green below ; 
And the while she stops to listen 
Even common pebbles glisten 

To beguile her not to go. 

Now the southern wind upraises 
Baflled, sad-eyed meadow daisies, 

Fading since that summer day 
When the thrushes, gladly singing. 
Pretty, downward notes were flinging, 

And the baby slipped away. 



14 



IN THE ORCHARD. 

"Feet as small as baby's, are 

Quite unfit to travel far. 

Rough-edged stones would cut and bruise 

Little feet in worsted shoes. 

Close beside us all the day 

Such a tender thing must stay." 

So we said, the playful breeze 

Shaking petals from the trees 

Over her, the while she sat 

Cooing softly. What was that 

Which her face upturned to see? 

Just some yellow coated bee 

With a freight of pollen brought 

From the apple-boughs, we thought. 

Still the wild bees drone and hum, 

And the tinted petals come 

In a fragrant shower down. 

But the baby's muslin gown 

Now no longer stretches fair 

Under them. The fuzzy hair 

Stirs no longer, though the breeze 

Ruffles yet the apple trees. 

Feet as small as baby's are 

Quite unfit to travel far. 

Rough-edged stones would cut and bruise 

Little feet in worsted shoes. 

Close beside us, did we say, 

Such a tender thing must stay? 



15 



PUSH. 

He is standing in the meadow, 
But he cannot see the skies, 

For a bonnet green and fuzzy 
Blinds his eager Httle eyes. 

Every day he tugs and pushes, 
Tries to get the strings undone. 

Till, one morning, when he wakens. 
He can really see the sun. 

For his bonnet strings have loosened. 
And his yellow head is up, 

Bluebirds on their way to breakfast 
Nod to little buttercup. 



10 



TOGETHER. 

Where the clovers grow the reddest, 

Grandpa and the baby He, 
Smiling softly at each other 

And the white clouds in the sky. 
Neither very far from heaven. 

She but lately left, and he 
With his feet turned toward the valley 

Where the longer shadows be. 

Still the clovers nod and beckon, 

They have secret thoughts forsooth. 
Grown more sweet since they were learned by 

Grandpapa and little Ruth. 
Neither very far from heaven. 

Was it strange that they should slip 
Past the border line together, 

Angels watching lest they trip. 



17 



A PRAYER FOR THE NEW YEAR. 

In the cold a snowbird pausing 

Sings a little song that cheers, 
Though the evergreens are dropping 

In slow grief their frozen tears, 
For the old year that is fading 

To the place of vanished years. 

Oh thou Christ, whose great heart throbbeth 

Over all defenseless things, 
Thou who givest to the snowbird 

Feathered coat and downy wings, 
And a heart so brave and cheery 

That in coldest times it sings, 

Give like gifts to us who falter 

At the parting of the ways. 
With the Old Year left behind us. 

And a host of untried days 
Waiting that we see but dimly 

Through the thick surrounding haze. 

Give us wings, oh Christ, to bear us 
From the reach of ruth and wrong, 

And when some who take the footpaths 
Find the days too cold and long, 

Let us linger near a moment, 
Just to sing the snowbird's song. 



ARBUTUS. 

"Wake," said the Spring, "I am lonely, my dar- 
lings. 

Shake the sleep quick from your eyes, 
I long for the sight of you ; come to your mother ; 

Arise, little children, arise." 

Violets shivered and moaned through the covers, 

"Oh, 'tis so windy and chill !" 
"My dream is so sweet ; let me finish it," mur- 
mured 

Dear little gold Dafifodil. 

Then spoke Arbutus, her tender cheek flushing, 

Raising her head from the snow ; 
"I will get up, mother, dear. Do you want me? 

But I am so little, you know." 

"Want you, my darling?" said Spring, "Oh, come 
quickly," 

And down on the pink face she smiled. 
"Don't tell your brothers and sisters, my baby, 

But you are my favorite child." 



19 



IN THE WOOD. 

I can pull the snowy petals 

From the shy anemone, 
And the timid bluets falter 

When they catch a glimpse of me. 

When arbutus indiscreetly 

Throws its fragrance in my face, 

To the left and right I hurry, 
Till I find its hiding place. 

And my sacrilegious fingers 
Tear the pretty thing apart, 

Till I know the inmost secrets 
That are hidden in its heart. 

Ihen, beneath the trees I linger. 
Wander o'er the shaded ground, 

Over dead leaves just to listen 
To the pleasant crunching sound. 

You have heard these old leaf carpets 
Snap and crackle as you walk. 

And have seen the violet rising 
On its slender little stalk. 

Do you think I feel no rapture 

As these blossoms brush my sleeves? 

Do I stop to count the petals 
And the notches in the leaves? 

Keep your secret, purple treasure. 

Not one petal would I tear. 
What care I how many sepals 

Or how many leaves you bear? 



20 



TO A DANDELION. 

Could I only find a way to enter, 
I would rest within your golden center. 
I would feel the sunshine with your feeling, 
When into your disk the dawn comes stealing. 
I would live my life out as yours passes. 
When the sun looks down upon the grasses. 
Where you sway, with heat that burns and lin- 
gers, 
I would feel your slender sepal-fingers 
Wrapping me within your golden treasure. 
From the light shut out, with drowsy pleasure 
We should sink to sleep, nor care to waken. 
Till at last, by breezes lightly shaken. 
You and I, aroused, wouM find unnumbered 
Soft white wings made ready while we slumbered. 



21 



MAYFLOWER. 

"P(X)r last year's leaves," the pussy willows gray, 
Just opened to the sunshine murmured low, 

"What made you linger all the winter through ? 
You should have dropped away long months 
ago." 

They shook their heads, those old arbutus leaves, 
"The winter through we stayed and did not 
sleep, 

Because," they said, "a secret very dear 

Was given us till spring to guard and keep." 

The May day dawned and clustered faces pink 
Tossed in the breeze and dropped a timid kiss 

Upon those old brown leaves that whispered low 
"We waited all the winter time for this." 



AN APRIL FLOWER. 

"Little flower, if I could understand what you are, 
I should know what God and man is." 

Tennyson. 

I wonder, April token, if you hold 
The secret that the poet's flower hid 

Within its covert in the "crannied wall." 
Perhaps if you should raise each golden lid 

That I might seek to fathom in your eyes 
The tender thoughts entrusted you to keep, 

I, too, could read some word of "God and man," 
And those dim mysteries of life and sleep. 

1 fancy you could teach me, for you come 
From out your winter grave in robes that shine, 

As long ago came One who in His eyes 
Held light of both the human and divine. 



AN AWAKING. 

Such a lovely world the Jonquil 
Raised her pretty head to see. 

"From the brown earth to the sunshine 
I am glad to change," said she. 

"Children said 'good-bye' last autumn, 
Not 'good-night,' they fancied then 

That the chilly ground would freeze me 
So I would not rise again. 

"But I only slept" — the Jonquil 
Softly waved her golden cup, 

"Dreaming of the warm days coming 
Till the Easter woke me up." 



34 



IMPRINTED. 

She used to stray among the meadow flowers. 

Their petals brightened as they saw her pass. 
They reached detaining hands until she lingered, 

Aiid spread her little white dress in the grass. 

And she would talk with them ; her gentle whis- 
pers 

Imprinted on the disks in lasting way, 
Till now, as often as I pass the meadow. 

They breathe out softly words she used to say. 

The daisy holds her pretty childish secrets 

Within its heart and grieves to yield them up. 

A tender little echo of her laughter 

Sounds softly from the yellow jonquil's cup. 



APRIL DAYS. 

A little hand within my own, I went 

Where green young grasses waved. The odors 

sent 
From fluted jonquils were so fine and sweet, 
We walked those pleasant ways with buoyant 

feet. 
That little face so near, no bird nor bee 
Flew fast as April days, I said, for me. 

Today I walk apart as one who dreams, 
For now the brim of every jonquil seems 
Transformed into a frame, to have and hold 
One tender, pictured face and hair of gold. 
Alone and hushed, I tread the grassy ways. 
Oh, must you last forever, April days? 



26 



JOHNNY JUMP UP. 

"Jump up, Johnny," April said, 
As she tossed her sunny head. 
"Jump up, Johnny, it is spring ; 
Don't you hear the robins sing?" 

Johnny Hstened in surprise, 
Shook the frost-scales from his eyes ; 
"April," said he, "are you here?" 
Answered April, "Yes, you dear." 

Sad November's hoary hair 

Streaming in the frosty air 

Covered Johnny o'er with rime ; 

"Sleep," said he, "you'll wake some time.'^ 

"Yes," said Johnny, "I'll remember, 
I am not afraid, November." 
Then he bowed his withered head. 
"I shall wake again," he said. 



27 



TO A BLUET. 

With the southern wind swaying you, sweet, 
And the weeds pressing close to your feet, 
With the dust of the road in your eye, 
What say you, blue bit of the sky? 

God planted you there, so you grow 
Just as bright and as blue as you know 
He meant you to be — you are glad, 
And nothing you see makes you sad? 

Sway on, I must leave you, and yet 
Little bluet, I will not forget 
The message I read m your eye. 
You tiny blue bit of the sky. 



28 



DANDELIONS. 

We scarcely heeded how the sun 
Sent down its golden bars, 

For scattered through our meadow lay 
A host of fallen stars. 

Our eyes were dazzled by their light 
The little while they burned, 

But by and by they flickered out, 
And then to ashes turned. 



29 



THE RETURN. 

"Child, oh child, come back," I call her, 
Call across the gray-green sea 

Of the swaying meadow-grasses, 
But no answer comes to me. 

For the dead send back no message. 
And the child that once was I 

Went long since. 1 fancy she was 
Just a little loth to die. 

And perhaps upon the farther 
Side of this green meadow-sea, 

Little sad wraith, she is standing, 
Stretching woeful arms to me. 

Though I neither see nor hear her. 

She is sobbing low, I ween, 
She who always saw the message 

God had hidden in the green 

Of His growing things, who turned her 

Joyous child- face to the sky. 

Seeing there, undimmed, the meaning 

Hidden in the daisy's eye. 
* * * 

Something seems to part the grasses. 
Just a light wind, south-born, sweet ? 

Rather do the green plumes rustle 
With the passing of her feet. 

And no longer spreads between us 
Greenness of that meadow-sea, 

God has let His June-time glory 
Bring the young child back to me. 

30 



THE COMING OF JOY. 

He sought for joy, with eager, outstretched arms, 

But ever she grew fleeter to elude 
His longing grasp — among the haunts of men, 

Or in the quiet courts of solitude. 

Outwearied he forsook the quest at last, 

"Since grief my portion is," he murmured, 
"then 

My strife henceforth shall be to make less keen 
The throbbing heartaches of my brother-men." 

So passed his days, till one fair morning broke. 
The sunshine taking place of shadows dim. 

His eyes grew wide, half doubting what they saw, 
For joy at last had come to bide with him. 



31 



THE OVEN-BIRDS. 

Little brown birds, I have found you, led 
Half by the sound of your startled tread 
Over the woodland paths made brown 
By last year's leafage that drifted down, 
Half by the hurried, insistent notes 
That ring so clear from your tender throats. 
"Teacher ! Teacher !" Do you, too, yearn 
Some of the spring's deep thoughts to learn ? 

What are the questions that trouble you? 
I have been puzzling the morning through 
Over the secrets these young days hold, 
The glory hid in the burnished gold 
Of dandelions, the wondrous way 
That new life springs from the old decay. 
What does it all betoken? I 
Am so unknowing of whence and why ! 
''Teacher! Teacher!" my heart's cry, too, 
Little brown birds, let me sing with you. 



32 



THE MAPLE. 

In the April time how red it glowed, 
To caressing winds its tassels freeing, 

All its veins astir with glad young life 
Flushing with the ecstacy of being. 

Now the autumn comes, with saddened eyes, 
Takes her weary way along the edges 

Of the forest, turning here and there. 
Just to hush a bird-song in the hedges. 

On the tossing trees she lays her hand, 

Stilling veins too quick a rhythm keeping ; 

But the maple, thrilling at her touch, 
Flushes once again — for joy of sleeping! 



33 



A GOLDEN MESSAGE. 

I walk among the grassy mounds, 
And read the words that love has cut 

Upon the marbles keeping guard 
Of those who lie with eyelids shut. 

I think of words the Saviour spoke, 
To clear the shadow from the eyes 

Of those who knew that they must sleep 
And shrank in trembling, "Ye shall rise." 

The April sunbeams shyly touch 

A crocus with a golden heart. 
The sod's detaining hold escaped. 

It stands with petals spread apart 

Like wings prepared for flight. I see 

The message shine its gold heart through. 

"As I have risen from the earth, 

Some sunny morning so will you !" 



34 



HILDA. 

The banquet table is spread and waiting 

For Laddie, Hilda and ladies fair, 
The banquet hall has a blue-arched ceiling, 

A soft green pattern each portiere. 

The throats of a hundred birds a-tremble, 
The whole air thrills with the liquid sound. 

Sweet little Hilda, she smiles benignly 
Upon her guests as they gather round. 

Never before was a hall so spacious. 
With blue sky ceiling, and portieres 

A maze of emerald swaying branches, 
The table's a flat gray stone — who cares? 

The silver set and the cut glass pitcher. 
The china cups and the saucers, all 

Are an apronful of the red bronze treasures 
The stately oak in the night let fall. 

But never was sweeter, more gracious hostess 
Than Hilda under that old oak tree. 

The china ladies they smile serenely, 
And Laddie's eyes are like stars to see. 

For oh, but the world is a bright and fair one, 
And, oh, but the hours go by so soon 

When one is young and the hair is gold, and 
A year's joy lurks in an afternoon. 

The years have flown, and the fair child Hilda's 

Tresses turned to a chestnut hue. 
Her cut glass now has an unfeigned lustre, 

Her silver service rings clear and true. 

35 



They talk of a hundred pleasant nothings, 
She and her circle of smiling guests, 

And none more gaily than Lady Hilda 
Leads the laugh and the merry jests. 

Yet I fancy under her silken bodice 

A sigh comes quick which she crushes down. 

As she thinks of the lad and the china ladies 
Who drank their tea from the acorns brown. 

For oh, but the world is a bright and fair one, 
And oh, but the hours go by so soon. 

When one is young and the hair is gold, and 
A year's joy lurks in an afternoon. 



36 



GOD'S LITTLE GIRL. 

She left her home in the starry ways, 
And reached our arms in the April days, 
We thought to keep her and hold her here. 
And our little girl we called the dear. 

One pleasant eve when the sun had dipped 
Out of our sight and the stars had slipped 
Silently back to their wonted ways, 
She turned her face with a wistful gaze 

Up to the blue of the arching skies. 

We knew by the look in her pretty eyes 

And the smile that brightened her small face so, 

It was time for God's little girl to go. 

A kiss we dropped on her curly head. 
"Sweet little heart, good-bye," we said. 
Then, unafraid, though the way was dim, 
God's little girl went back to him. 



THE ANSWER. 

"God keep my dear little girl," I said, 
"My fair little girl in her snow white bed. 
Let sleep be good to her, dreams be fair 
That push their way through her sunny hair. 

Stars shine out in the evening sky; 
Not in the little white bed that I 
Thought so safe does the darling sleep, 
Wide-eyed daisies and clovers keep 

Watch above her. The prayer I said 
Nightly over the small white bed 
I know is needed no more — no more. 
She never was kept so safe before. 



38 



A SEARCH. 

I looked on the hillside, I looked in the meadow, 
Down in the grass tufts and up in the tree. 

I parted the twigs of the wet laurel bushes. 
But only the shining of dew could I see. 

Under the spikes of the waving sweet clover, 
Down in the buttercups stooping to look, 

Ther for a moment I fancied I saw it 
Gleam from the pebbles that shone in the brook. 

I found what I sought for, but not in the meadow. 
And not in the cowslips that grew by the rill, 

Not in the brook as it flashed to allure me, 
But hiding itself in a yellow bird's trill. 



39 



FOR VANITY'S SAKE. 

He was a happy and gay little singer, 

With lyrics of summer pent up in his throat ; 

He sang from the dawn till the sunset, but always 
He kept for the evening his tenderest note. 

Then, when the little gold stars were all twink- 
ling, 
He flew to the brim of his brown woven nest. 
And twittered soft nothings, received sleepy 
answers 
That made a glad quiver creep into his breast 

And ruffle his fuzzy red feathers. There surely 
Was never a little bird gladder than he. 

No other nest with so downy a lining 
Was ever more cozily moored in a tree. 

The air of the forest is heavy with fragrance, 
As gay-tinted flowers their petals uncurl ; 

But two flashing wings that God colored as 
brightly 
Are rigid and still — for the whim of a girl. 

The little brook catches its breath as it passes, 
A shadow lies dark on the woods' brooding 
face — 
A bit of God's music and sunshine gone from 
them — 
Fettered by ribbons and meshes of lace. 

A full-throated chorus, yet summer is grieving 
Over the songs that will never be heard — 

Locked in a small, stiffened breast. O, I wonder 
What God is thinking, you poor little bird. 



40 



WHEN THE LEAVES FLY. 

Through the frosty air they whirl, 
With a flutter, twist and twirl, 

Dizzy-headed things are they 
Red-leaf boy and gold-leaf girl, 

Over glad to fly away 

To the hollow, to the eaves, 
Oh, you little giddy leaves, 

Stop one moment — call good-bye, 
For the heart of Nature grieves 

When the summer children fly. 



TO A DEAD BIRD 
(On a woman's hat.) 

Had I found you where the sunshine 

Sifted through the lacy screen 
Of the overarching treetops 

To 'the mosses mottled green, 
I could smooth your downy feathers, 

Saying "Happy fate was this, 
Dying while the world was fairest 

From an overweight of bliss." 

But too brief your time of harking 

To the summer's joyous laugh, 
And your crimson throat was surely 

Stififened ere it sang the half 
Of the 'songs our Father gave you. 

That the forest fain had heard. 
Unappeased, I mourn you, cheated 

Of your birthright, little bird. 



42 



WHEN THE DAYS GROW LONG. 

Though a host of budding trees and bushes 
Down to me their sweetest odors fling, 

And all nature laugh aloud for gladness, 
I am never merry in the spring. 

When the restless birds come flying homeward 
From the south — when plumy grasses start, 

Suddenly some thomless flower pricks me. 

Or the fragrance of a jonquil wrings my heart. 

Ere the world had seen so many Aprils, 
Did this life of mine, I wonder, press 

In the veins of some young growing thins: 
Aching with the season's loveliness? 



43 



A REVELATION. 

The night was long and the shadows spread 

As far as the eye could see. 
I stretched my hands to a human Christ, 

And he walked through the dark with me. 

Out of the dimness at last we came, 
Our feet on the dawn-warmed sod, 

And I saw by the light in his wondrous eyes 
I walked with the Son of God. 



44 



IN AUTUMN. 

Autumn stillness over all, 
One by one the treasures fall 

From the old tree's summer gains, 
Poor, stiff leaves that seem to hold 
Yet a little touch of gold 

In their pretty penciled veins. 

Like the old tree, softly fanned 
By the autumn wind, we stand 

With our old deeds downward cast. 
Stretching empty arms to Thee, 
Knowing fairer things will be 

When the shorter days have passed. 



45 



A TIME OF CHANGE. 

In the air one thrill of song, 
But the Maydays grow too long. 
Seems the jonquil nothing but 
Golden pain and tears to shut 
Fast within its fluted brim. 
Seems the robin's morning hymn 
Filled with sad complaint and woe. 
From the rarest things that grow 
Hasten love and life to go. 

Now the wearied maples flush, 
But the sober-coated thrush, 
Planning flight, no longer grieves 
At the fall of scarlet leaves. 
Chill the air, but loving eyes 
Watch us from the autumn-skies 
With their changing blue and gray. 
Ah, no longer we shall say 
Love and life have flown awav. 



46 



COMPLETION. 

We leave so many things unfinished here, 

For we are weak and faint, and Hfe not long. 

The singer's voice is silenced just before 
He makes the final stanza for his song. 

The artist's trembling fingers lay aside 
His color tubes and brushes wet with paint, 

The image in his heart still glowing bright, 
The picture on the canvas dim and faint. 

God makes the twisted buds upon the rose 
The pledges of more brilliant beauty soon. 

The green young promises the springtime holds 
All find fulfillment in the perfect June. 

He made us in his likeness, and I know 
Our highest reachings come from him, so I 

Have learned to see in each unfinished work 
An earnest of completion by and by. 



47 



THE CLOSE OF SUMMER. 

Summer's lived her last sweet day ; 
But before she went away, 
Lest the children be bereft, 
In their clinging care she left 
Perfumed memories of hours 
Spent in comradeship with flowers, 
Learning in the field and wood 
More and more that God is good. 

He is love. This message sweet 
They have heard the sea repeat. 
Now in murmurs low, subdued, 
Now in bright and buoyant mood ; 
They have seen it written large 
On the purple hills, a charge 
To be kind as He is kind. 
Tender-hearted, leave behind 
No regret to throb and burn 
When their sun-kissed faces turn 
Home again. Though winds blow chill, 
All the child-hearts carol still. 
Summer's gone away, but she 
Leaves to them this legacy. 



48 



HOME COMING. 

A row of towering hollyhocks, 

A flash of color from clustered phlox, 

A whiff of fragrance from beds of pinks, 

A golden rose where a brown bee drinks, 

A flash and flut1;er of sweet pea wings, 

A gay confusion of growing things. 

No dearer flowers were ever known 

Than these in Grandmother's garden grown. 

A gentle stir in the summer air. 
The morning glories still tremble where 
The sun's hot rays cannot reach to scorch, 
And there, in the cool of the painted porch. 
With lights and shadows from vines that lace 
Sketching their fancies upon her face. 
Grandmother stands with her eyes aglow — 
Her arms outreaching — she loves us so. 

Another svunmer has come and passed. 
The morning-glories have all shut fast 
Their filmy trumpets of white and blue, 
The pinks lived sadly their season through. 
They need no longer to toss and sway. 
Since Grandmother's eyes are so far away. 

We hush our voices and go no more 

A happy troop to the farmhouse door. 

For she has passed, with her work all done. 

Up to a city that needs no sun. 

I know her home must be fair to see. 

And love to fancy her paths may be 

Bordered with flowers like those that grew 

Within the garden her children knew. 



49 



By and by, when their work is done, 
Grandmother's children will, one by one, 
Slip from their places and go to her, 
And warned, perhaps, by the leaves astir, 
She'll be at the door with her eyes aglow- 
Her arms outreaching — she loves us so. 



50 



THE CHILDREN'S SUMMER. 

Home again, and with buoyant feet 
The children come to us, all their sweet 
Sun-kissed faces a-smile, aglow. 
Their hands are filled till they overflow 
With wildwood treasures and meadow-bloom, 
With dazzling color and mixed perfume. 

Ah, those days in the wild, free air. 

With eyes a-sparkle and tossing hair, 

They sang and caroled, for speech seemed 

brusque. 
And roamed the open from dawn till dusk. 

Something sweeter their child-eyes met 
Than sweet-breathed clover and mignonette, 
Something of far more beauty too 
Than roses' crimson or harebells' blue — 
Something brighter than goldenrod — 
They looked and smiled — in the face of God. 



51 



INDIAN SUMMER. 

She would make herself beloved and missed. 
So the fleeing Autumn stops to twist 
Hazy folds about her faded face. 
On the hills a-tiptoe, for a space 
She is standing in a borrowed dress, 
Wearing Summer's name and loveliness, 
Yearningly we gaze ; for soon the spot 
Glorified by her will know her not. 



52 



THE CHILDREN'S HARVEST. 

Out from the trees and meadows 
The green and the gold have fled, 

And brown on the woodland pathways 
The drifted leaves lie dead. 

A hush broods over the hilltop 

Since children and birds took flight, 

And thick on the trees' bare branches 
The hoar-frost glistens white. 

And yet when the earth lies sleeping 
Deep under the winter snows. 

There will be in the children's vision 
The bright rare hue of the rose. 

The breath of the meadow lilies 
Will sweeten the wintry air, 

The harvested joy of summer 
Can make the whole year fair. 



53 



AFTER THE SUMMER. 

So much of joy the summer held for me, 
The wondrous turquoise reaches of the sea, 
The wave-tossed, tinted shells upon the strand, 
The pebbles glowing redly from the sand ; 
Sweet, idle time to watch the curlews pass 
Between the ranks of swaying, salt-marsh grass. 

Yet, somehow, at the summer's ending, when 
I saw the lights of home shine out again, 
I sent no backward yearning to the sea 
And all the joys the summer held for me. 
Regretful tears were far away. Instead, 
"The coming home is best of all," I said. 

Then let it be, dear Christ, when by and by 

My happy summer here is spent, that I 

May take my way unsaddened toward the place 

That needs no light but shining of thy face. 

Thy smile will be so loving, I shall say 

"My summer-time was glad and flew away 

On wings that seemed too fast and fleet, and yet 

I somehow feel no yearning, no regret. 

No wish that summer landscape to recall. 

For comine home is sweetest, after all." 



54 



A BACKWARD GLANCE. 

This is the time for a backward glancing 
Over the pathways that claimed our feet 

When days were long and the light was golden, 
And breath of breezes was warm and sweet. 

Living once more in those days of sunshine, 
And breathing in fancy their fragrance yet, 

There are places roughened by thorns and briers, 
And shadowy ways we would not forget. 

We blend them all in one glad thanksgiving, 
Those summer days in the field and wood, 

Songs and stillness, and shade and sunshine. 
Briers and roses, for all were good. 

Now, with the summer a sweet remembrance. 
With white snow heaped in a woolly mass 

Over the trees and shrubs and bushes. 

And muffling the blades of the tender grass, 

With crystal treasures, wee stars six-pointed, 
Hiding the tremors of nature's breast, 

Earth today is as fair and spotless 

As one for a lengthened slumber dressed. 

There has been so much of the yellow sunshine, 
So much singing of lark and thrush ; 

Sleep is good for the world is weary, 
Song less dear than the winter's hush. 

We know in a day that is not far distant 
The muffled grasses will feebly stir. 

And earth's stiff fingers throw off the covers 
That for a season have sheltered her. 



55 



Christ, we thank thee, that some day surely 

Under a cover as soft and deep 
As drifted snowflakes on tender grasses, 

We thy beloved shall find our sleep. 

That just as sure as the earth shall waken 
From winter's dreaming, and clear her eyes 

Of snowy crystals to look about her, 

Some fair spring morning, we too shall rise. 



A THANKSGIVING. 

"So many g-ifts to thank Him for," I said, 

"His life and his arising- from, the dead, 

The days of sun and calm accorded me, 

And best of all the hope of life to be. 

So fair and smooth the way that I have come, 

I fain would thank him but my lips are dumb." 

Then all at once the outdoor stillness broke, 

A childish voice beneath my window spoke; 

I saw November snowflakes flash and shine 

Upon a small, wan face upturned to mine. 

I drew the little stranger in to rest, 

And smoothed her tumbled hair upon my breast. 

"Dear child," I said, "God's kingdom is of such," 

And then I heard a whisper, "Inasmuch 

As thou hast made this little child to be 

Less sad and wayworn, thou hast gladdened me." 

The evening shades grew long and deepened, but 

I held her fast and sung her eyelids shut. 

Within my arms she nestled pink and warm, 

And as I closer clasped her sleeping form 

I knew the little child of God became 

The thankful prayer my lips had tried to frame. 



THE YEAR'S GOOD. 

Too great the sum of my year's good to reckon, 
So many memories sweet and tender beckon ; 
Of glad white days when hills and fields of clover 
With tiny crystal stars were covered over ; 
Of young new days when maples swung their 

tassels, 
And feathered things in treetops built their 

castles. 
When gold and purple flags the iris flaunted 
And all the whole wide, outdoor world was 

haunted 
With sweet expectancy, then June, bright comer, 
And all the gold fulfillment of the summer ; 
The mellow peace and hush of autumn's reigning. 
Those days before she went, of tender feigning 
That summer had returned and joy must follow, 
When opal haze she left on hill and hollow. 
Oh this, dear Christ, today is my Thanksgiving, 
I thank thee for this whole sweet year of living. 



58 



I'LL LIVE MY THANKS. 

A day for giving thanks, and though I come, 
The year's good seems so great, it leaves me 

dumb. 
I con the by-gone days. In each I see 
So much more joy than ill that came to me. 

So many loving pressures to thy heart. 
And sudden dear reminders that thou art 
Not far from any one of us ; such sweet 
Surprises dropped from heaven at my feet. 

Then, as a little child seeks out the place 
Where mother sits, and smiles into her face 
The loving thanks it has no words to say, 
I come to thee on this Thanksgiving day. 

I gaze into thine eyes and see them shine, 
I meet the yearning love they speak to mine ; 
This only can I say : "In days to be, 
O loving Christ, I'll live mv thanks to thee." 



THANKSGIVING. 

For my past, Lord, I would whisper 

Only thankful prayers to thee. 
Looking back upon the picture 

I have left behind, I see 
Sunny spots for which to thank thee. 

Though the landscape does not lack 
Shadows with its brighter colors. 

Yet I thank thee — looking back. 

For these present days how can I 

Aught but deep thanksgiving say ? 
For the fingers clasping those I 

Slip within them — for the way 
Thou dost make thine own face shining 

When the sunlight seems to flee. 
And dost clear the sky that stretches 

Dark and angry over me. 

For my future. Lord, I thank thee ; 

What am I that I should care 
Though the shadows come, if. reading 

Of a city lying square, 
I grow stronger for the journey. 

Till the entrance gates shall seem 
Wide and open as the prophet 

Saw them shining in his dream. 



6i) 



THANKFULNESS. 

I thank thee that so many saddening things 
Thou art too tender, Lord, to let me know ; 

That thou dost hide my future, so that I 
Can see no darkened way that I must go. 

I thank thee for the leafless trees that stand 
With whispered promises in each bare bough ; 

And for the leaves and blossoms yet unblown, 
That spring will bear, dear Lord, I thank thee 

now. 

I thank thee that my thoughts go straight to thee, 
As sure as ever bird to hilltop soared ; 

That thou dost take my outstretched hand in 
thine, 
And listen while I say, 'T thank thee. Lord." 



61 



MY THANKSGIVING. 

The haze of Indian summer dies away, 

The snow-flakes fall in noiseless beauty down, 

The autumn time's defection to atone 
By spreading gently over all the brown 

Of withered leaves and grasses. We have come. 
Oh, Christ, dear Christ, our thankful prayers 
to say , 

For all the twelve months past have held for us. 
Too often we have let them slip away 

Their good unheeded. Memory calls them back 
A moment now for one last tender gaze. 

We thank thee for the loving thought from thee, 
That came to brighten each of last year's days. 

It seems so little while since we were here 

To give our thanks before and lose our fears, 

And yet one more of our three score and ten 
Has gone to sojourn with the vanished years. 

Among the prayers that I would make today 
For blessings that the season brings to me, 

I give my thanks, oh loving Christ, for this 
The year has brought me twelve months nearer 
thee. 



UNDER THE ROSES. 

One by-gone summer day in playful wise 
My little sweetheart folded both her eyes 
And her two hands and would not move nor stir, 
While I with fallen roses covered her. 

Once more my little sweetheart lays her down, 
In smooth and glossy braids her hair of brown, 
Her small, soft hands refolded still and meek. 
The old-time pretty dimple dents her cheek, 

As though beneath each tender blue-veined lid 
A smile she could not drive away were hid. 
Her face thrice-kissed, I leave my sweetheart so 
A-smiling through the roses — and the snow. 



UPREACHING. 

This little song shall be for God, I said, 

And when I sing it He will touch my head. 

He gave me all the voice I have — and yet 

I sing of birds and flowers, and I forget. 

It would not come. The song refused to be. 

I sat there in the meadow and could see 

A tangle of wild blossoms, clover tops, 

A bunch of daisy heads with jeweled drops. 

And while the crickets chirped and locusts 

drummed, 
The only tune that I have ever hummed 
Came sounding in my ears and thrust aside 
All thought of other songs. I opened wide 
My arms to grasp — the sweetness nearer drew ; 
And I — I sang the only song I knew. 
The hymn to God unsung, I grieved awhile ; 
Then all at once the meadow seemed to smile. 
A little angel face seemed raised to me 
From every flower's hollow. Could it be 
Some meadow daisy, swaying on its stem 
Had brought me nearer to His garment-hem? 



64 



AN ALLEGORY. 

With skilful hand and true the painter wrought, 
One touch and then another added fair, 

And some there were who gathered near to look, 
And stole away, ennobled unaware. 

How was it? — at the nightfall, ere he left 

His long day's work, he gave just one false 
touch, 

And they, who came on tiptoe while he slept 
To view the finished picture, marveled much. 

A moment of pained stillness, then the wreath 
Of laurel leaves that they had wound to lay 

Upon his forehead, trod they underfoot, 
And leaving him to slumber, turned away. 



65 



THE FINDING. 

Long" time she sought her Lord, with heavy eyes. 

The snow-wreaths passed, and came once more 
the spring. 

In yonder bush a bird began to sing. 
She heeded not, for gazing at the skies. 

At last, forspent, with sobbing breath she crept 
Close to the heart of kind old Mother-earth. 
She heard its ceaseless throbs of pain and 
mirth. 

And, ere she knew, a little time she slept. 

Hark! What was that? The grasses' sudden 
stir? 

Some tender blade emerging from the sod ? 

She raised her face enraptured ; it was God 
Through nature's myriad voices calling her. 



66 



THE BRAHMIN'S PRAYER. 

He prays, and one whose heart is love, I think 
Bends over him, though Brahma's ears are 
stone. 

For by and by he rises comforted, 

And feels himself less wretched and alone. 

"Yes, I shall find Nirvana at the last. 
And all this restlessness of mine shall be 

Extinguished like a candle flame at night, 
No more to be remembered," whispers he. 

Who knows what glad surprise may by and by 
Before that wearied Brahmin's vision fllit? 

Our Father's City has so many gates — 

Three to the east, north, south and west of it. 



AFTERGLOW. 

With drudging cares she lived her days, and when 
No year was left of her three-score and ten, 
At twilight's silver grayness toward the place 
Where hopes had long been buried, turned her 

face. 
She touched the spot with reverent finger-tips, 
A moment stooped and pressed it with her lips, 
But swift uprose, with eyes dilated wide, 
For one with noiseless feet was by her side. 

Then "Come," he said, and "Yea," she answered 

quick, 
But somehow tears surprised her fast and thick. 
Her startled face upraised, "One hour," she 

plead, 
"To finish my good-byes and leave my dead." 
The faded deeps of her old eyes he scanned, 
His fingers touched her faithful, workworn hand, 
Her patient face. "Not so," he said, "not so; 
I bid them rise and follow where we go." 



A PRAYER. 

If I knew that in the night my soul 

Back to God would speed, then all day through 
I would smile on those that I must leave, 

And would say the kindest words I knew. 
Hoping after I had gone that they might say, 
"She was sweetest just before she went away." 

But because I cannot know what time 
They will search and find my spirit gone, 

Whether in the night when others sleep, 
Or perchance at breaking of the dawn. 

This the prayer I have most need to say, 

''Let my words be kind and tender every day." 



69 



MISUNDERSTOOD. 

Tender wildvvood notes he took, 
Laughing whispers from the brook, 

And a secret, gay and glad. 
That the feathered things let fall. 
In a song he bound them all 

Just to make the world less sad. 

And the people hushed and still. 
Listened in their darkness, till 

It was finished, then apart 
Turned with wistfulness that seemed 
Never to have guessed or dreamed 

That he sang with breaking heart. 



INTERPRETATION. 

Copyright 1853 by ths Cosmopolitan Magazine 

He thought of all the heart-aches he had known, 
And singing in the twilight bowed his head. 

"The world will hear and pass unheeding on, 
And no one ever understand," he said. 

A thousand hearts grew hushed to hear the song. 

And eyes that mocked before grew soft and 

dim, 

They strained to see the singer through the dusk. 

And smiling through their tears claimed kin 

with him. 



70 



RELEASE. 

Winter's hands had hidden from our sight 
All the fields that made the summer green. 

Earth was sleeping with a cloud of snow 
Laid upon her bosom as a screen. 

Came at last the spring, with eyes that yearned 
For the grasses lying low and chill. 

Though her face was wan, her buoyant feet 
Danced across the dazzling fields until 

In the white, unbroken crust they made 
Little rifts where'er they touched, and then 

Sun-warmed grasses, trembling with delight, 
Lifted up their pointed spears again. 



71 



IN PASSING. 

If thou but hold me close I shall not heed 

The flowing water and the moaning blast, 
Nor strangeness of the banks where rush and 
reed 
In chilly dampness blow, 
Then hold me fast, 

Christ Jesus, when I go. 

If thou but whisper low, I shall not care 
What dreary echoes in the valley be. 
What gloomy noises fill the heavy air, 
And to loud wailing grow ; 
Then speak to me, 

Christ Jesus, when I go. 

If thou but smile on me I shall not note 
The dusk enfolding me a little while. 
Nor darkness of the waves that round the boat 
With saddened murmurs flow ; 
Then do thou smile, 

Christ Jesus, when I go. 



A HOPE. 

I know God loves all helpless feathered things, 
And when the sparrows fall with draggled wings 
From out their storm-rocked nest, I know he 

sees, 
For tender eyes he has for such as these. 
I know there is a country fair and far, 
Within whose borders living waters are. 
Green trees are there with branches spreading 

wide 
Above the sloping banks on either side. 

And since God's trees are troubled by no storm, 

I love to fancy that their branches form 

Safe, sheltered hollows where they fly to rest, 

Those little sparrows fallen from the nest 

In this our windblown world. We call them 

dead; 
But since long years ago our Saviour said 
No sparrow falls without his Father's ken, 
I think that he may let them nest again. 



ASSURANCE. 

God would not grant us here the gift of love, 

If in our passing through the gates above 

We needs must leave it on the outer side. 

The city's gates will surely open wide 

That we may bear it with us as we go, 

For love came first from God himself, I know. 

And so I hold my dear ones fast and warm, 
And if at evening-time some weary form 
From my caresses softly glides away, 
"For just a little while, good-bye," I say. 
"Dear eyes I know as loved and loving, ye, 
Though looking in God's face will not for me 
Forget your old sweet speech. I feel, I know 
The changeless Father will not change you so." 



74 



ACCLI MATURE. 

Beaten paths are, to my thinking. 
Safest ways ; so, timid, shrinking. 

When I go among the stars, 
I shall stop, with pulses surging, 
Like a butterfly emerging 

From its shattered prison bars. 

As it stands a season waiting. 
With its untried wings vibrating. 

Hardly daring to explore 
Clover-tops or ox-eye daisies, 
Or the dozen pretty mazes 

Through the jonquil's yellow door, 

With my wings unused to flying, 
And too new for careless trying. 

Eyes all blinded by the light, 
I shall need a moment's resting. 
And a little time for testing 

If my wings be strong for flight. 



75 



"NOT FAR FROM ANY ONE OF US." 

I cannot read the words with eyes so weak, 
Yet I am sure as when some dear friends speak 
With smiles and loving gestures, face to face. 
That in this rose's pink and hollowed place, 
God's message waits my longing eyes to meet, 
For nothing else could make it half so sweet. 

And so with all these daisies that I hold ; 
A message lingers in their v/hite and gold ; 
The while I strain my eyes I feel the touch 
Of unseen fingers. Surely there is much 
Of God himself in simple outdoor things, 
That we may see before we have our wings. 



A MEMORY. 

How it chanced we do not know, 

She learned in some way that 
There was a meadow far away 

Where Httle children sat, 
Where song-birds stayed the whole year through, 

And grasses kept their green, 
And butterflies with broken wings 

Were sorrows never seen. 
We grieved at first to think that she 

Had learned so strange a thing, 
We searched the forests and the fields. 

And coaxed the birds to sing. 
We would not let her see the way 

Our meadow daisies fade. 
So when within the yellow disks 

There came a darker shade, 
And slender petals drooping down 

Began to lose their white, 
We drew them from her little hands, 

And thrust them out of sight. 
We sang to her, and tried to keep 

Our lips from trembling too. 
We told her where the brownies hide. 

And what the fairies do. 
We sang of all the pretty sights 

That come in with the springs. 
Of little birds with fuzzy breasts. 

And sunshine on their wings. 



One summer day when pleasant rains 

Had made the woodsprings gush, 
We stopped our singing all at once, 

And bade the song-birds hush. 
We searched the forests and the fields 

For flowers white and sweet, 
And left some in her tiny hands 

And others at her feet. 



GOOD-BYE. 

How can I say God speed you, when I know 
The words must be a prayer to let you go 
From out my sight? I love you, dear, 
And those we love the best we want most near. 

But yet I say it. May God speed you. See, 
I loose my hold upon you. There will be 
The ocean's breadth between us, very soon, 
And when the sun is over me, the moon 
Will light your path and shine upon your way, 
And yet — God speed you — is the prayer I say. 



79 



A DISCORD. 

The thrushes and Hnnets 
Sang sweetly last June, 

But now they are rasping 
And sing out of tune. 

The round ox-eye daisies 
Once gladdened my sight, 

They are now only yellow spots 
Bordered with white. 

The bees buzz about them ; 

I shrink at the sound, 
The buttercups, too. 

I could crush to the ground. 

How could I have thought 
They were gold in the grass. 

When every round petal 
Seems heavy with brass? 

Sweet sounds and sweet odors 
I wish I could smother, 

For summer and I are 
At odds with each other. 



80 



STRAYED. 

My voice has grown discordant, so 
The Httle songs I used to know 

Have gone where lost things be. 
They are too small, I know, to mourn, 
And yet they are too weak to scorn, 

They are a part of me. 

Perhaps, when summer birds return. 
With southern fashions we can learn, 

And bees begin to hum. 
Half hidden in some fragrant thing, 
Or tucked beneath a robin's wing, 

Mv truant sonsfs mav come. 



81 



PRESAGE. 

I have not lived so long that I can pass 
A yellow flower hiding in the grass, 
Nor walk with empty hands where pebbles shine ; 
I call such small things of the meadow mine ; 
And if the petals from the rose-bush drop, 
When I am coming up the path, I stop. 
These small pink messages I understand, 
And take them lovingly within my hand. 

I know that sometime other days must be. 
When other things will come that I must see. 
When messages will reach me, not from flowers, 
And I might walk the meadow path for hours. 
And see no pebbles shining ; when my face 
Will give no sign of seeing, nor a trace 
Of even caring whether pink or brown 
The petals that the rose-bush flutters down. 



BY THE ROADSIDE. 

The little flowers along the dusty road — 
The yellow daisies — bending with their load 
Of undried dew, seem reaching hands to me, 
As if imploring I should wait and see 
The secret only they can show, that lies 
Within their just-awakened golden eyes. 

And so I stop along the meadow's edge. 

Or linger for a moment by the hedge 

To shake the dewdrops out and feel the thrill 

Of green leaves brushing on my hands, until 

I look up to the sky that stretches blue, 

And see God's face a moment shining through. 



83 



WHY I SING. 

Long, so long, the winter lingered. 
With impatient hand I fingered 
Bush and shrub, but they were sleeping, death, 
not life seemed ruling then. 
Winter leaning on his crutches. 
Heeded not my tender touches. 
And I said, and mourned to say it, "I can never 
sing again." 

Then the days grew longer, brighter, 
And my prisoned thoughts grew lighter, 
All wathin, and all without me, gladdened at the 
sight of spring. 
And in hearing and in seeing. 
All my soul sprang into being. 
For I felt the love around me, and I could not 
choose but sing. 



84 



TONIGHT. 

Tonight I almost envy you 
Your quiet bed that seems 

Too narrow for the coming in 
Of any noise or dreams. 

So when the earth is not too hard — 
A moist and pleasant mold — 

With dandelions here and there, 
Like scattered bits of gold, 

Then maybe I shall break my way 
The earth and grasses through, 

And smiling with my drowsy eyes 
Shall come to sleep with you. 



RENUNCIATION. 

First I gave my springtime up 

Daffodil and buttercup, 

With the early fragrance clinging 

To their petals, all the singing 

That could come from trees new budded. 

And from meadows sunshine flooded. 

Then I gave my summer over 
Crimson rose and purple clover. 
Snowy daisies, golden centred. 
Lilies that the wild bees entered 
Humming drowsy tunes, till they 
Wooed the sweetness all away. 

Autumn, too, I yielded up 
Every red-bronze acorn cup, 
Every pointed sumach cluster, 
Every leaf of fevered lustre, 
All the tender softened haze 
That could mark my autumn days. 

What is left for me to yield? 
Snow is hiding bush and field. 
All the birds have southward flown ; 
In the Northland I alone 
Stand with empty amis, bereft. 
Having only winter left. 



86 



WAITING. 

There is sympathy between that 

Wintry little brook and me, 
For our songs are frozen in us. 

All the winter we must be 

Hushed and quiet as the green things 
Wrapped in woolly robes of white. 

Every day must be as songless 
As the stillness of the night. 

By and by the pink arbutus 
On the hill will start and stir 

Under weight of last year's leafage 
Folding brownly over her. 

Then the rigid lines will vanish 
From the little brook's cold mouth, 

And her songs come back as swiftly 
As the bluebirds from the south. 

I shall linger near to listen, 

Half in envy of her, then — 
Ere I know it — I myself shall 

Find my little songs again. 



87 



AT TWILIGHT. 

The evening comes, the dandeHons fold, 
The sturdy calyx hides the shining gold, 
And jealously will guard it, day by day, 
Till all the hoarded treasure melt away. 

But changes over dreamers often creep, 
And as these yellow flowers fall asleep, 
I know they will not wake again, and so 
''God's little flowers, good-night," I whisper low. 

I know they sleep and will not waken, but 

It is not sad our weary eyes to shut, 

And I would sleep beside these pretty things. 

If, like them, all my gold would change to wings. 



88 



FOUR-SCORE. 

Soon his eyes will grow unheedful 
Of the things I call so needful 

To my summer ; he will note 
Neither brook on mosses splashing, 
Nor the brilliant colors flashing 

From the bluebird's slender throat. 

Though the waters shine or darken 
As they flow, he will not hearken 

To the tale they fain would sing 
Gladly, blithely, to^ each comer, 
Of the way the laughing summer 

Stole the laurels from the spring. 

This I know, so daily, nightly, 
Do I clasp his fingers tightly 

In my own, for any day 
He may travel far, beguiling 
With his wonted placid smiling 

All the strangeness of the way. 



HUSHED. 

What would you do if you longed to sing, 

If a song would come with the balmy spring? 

If you felt you could sing what you could not 

speak, 
And trying to prove it, your voice turned weak? 
What would you do if the notes half sung 
Should die away on your eager tongue. 
As the sudden fear on your heart should pour. 
That your poor little song had been sung before, 
Sung in a sweeter and stronger tone 
That makes yours seem but a feeble moan? 
What would you do ? You would leave the light, 
And sit as / do with lips shut tight, 
You would crush the fancies that round you cling 
And say that it hurts you too much to sing. 



90 



ROOM FOR TWO. 

Dusty yarrow by the pathway, 
Bending meekly as we pass. 

Sunshine lighting all the meadow 
And the blue-bells in the grass. 

But I do not feel the sunshine, 

Maud, my Maud, has been unkind ; 

She has said the path is narrow 
And that I must walk behind. 

Now, perhaps from very rapture, 
All the singing birds are still ; 

But the cricket chirps for gladness. 
And the locust's cry is shrill. 

Past the fields of waving barley, 

Where the nibbling field-mice frisk. 

Where the daisy, uninvited. 

Stands with upturned yellow disk, 

Maud and I walk on together ; 

We are happy through and through, 
For the path that seemed so narrow. 

Has grown wide enough for two. 



AT PARTING. 

Forgive me, dearest, if I look 
Too long upon you, as a book 

That I would learn, and so 
Must strain my eyes in reading, but 
To feel the jealous lids will shut 

Before the end I know. 

Forgive me, dearest, if I touch 
These braided tresses overmuch. 

This little curl I press, 
With thought of days when, far apart, 
No tender wile of lover's art 

Can make the distance less. 

Forgive me, dearest, if too near 
I bend, your slightest word to hear. 

I listen now, you see, 
For words that you may try to speak 
Some tender moment when too weak 

Your voice for reaching me. 



92 



"WHATEVER HE WOULD LIKE TO 
HAVE ME DO." 

So many paths to press, or leave unpressed, 
To take me to the valley — or the crest 
Of some green hill. Christ Jesus, help me know 
The ways that thou wouldst like to have me go. 

So many words to say, or leave unsaid, 
Before the wraith of evening-time shall spread 
Her hushing fingers on my lips. I pray 
For words that thou wouldst like to have me say. 

So many things to do, or leave undone. 
That I must choose between before the sun 
Withdraws its light. Then strengthen me anew 
To do what thou wouldst like to have me do. 



93 



THE BOOK. 

She lost the book she loved, and all her world 
Was wrapped in darkness for awhile, but when 

Long, tearful days had passed, one came to her, 
And slipped the volume in her hand again. 

She turned its pages, fearful lest the smile 

Of Him she held most dear had grown too dim 

To light the gulf she pictured stretched between 
The sinfulness of her poor trembling self and 
Him, 

The Lord of earth and heaven — righteous wrath 
Upon his face, so just, so far away, 

If Christ the tender one, were far removed. 
How could her heart find hope and faith to 
pray? 

She read the words again. Some, here and there. 
Were not as she remembered them before. 

And others she had known were blotted out. 
Yet still the Christ was smiling as of yore. 

But who was this, with lovelight in his look, 
A tenderness surpassing woman's grace? 

She clasped her hands and bowed her head, for,lo ! 
That wondrous look was on her Father's face. 



"BABIE STUART." 

Did they fancy while they dressed you, 

Royal robes for one so small, 
That they needs must get you quickly 
On the canvas if at all ? 

And did one, perhaps in waiting 
Look through sudden tears on you. 

Kiss you when your round cap's border 
Let a soft stray lock come through? 

That big treasure you are clasping, 
(Apple? Ball?' What is it, sweet?) 

Did it make the time go faster? 
Did it rest your little feet? 

Standing all those weary minutes 

At the painter's will demure. 
Though your heart was in the open 

With the sunshine, I am sure. 

Scarcely four short years vouchsafed you ! 

Was your childhood put aside 
With the little gowns and playthings, 

Babie Stuart, when you died? 

Or unchanged has it been left you 
All these passing cycles through, 

Have the later generations 
Been as but a day to you? 

Does the children's lover clasp you 
Now, as when with footfall low. 

Shy at changing worlds, you sought him. 
Two long centuries ago? 



TO A LONG-AGO MAID.* 

Within that old Virginia house it lies ; 
So small a thing it is to draw our eyes, 
A satin belt turned yellow long ago 
Some little Boston maid's ; we only know 

That round her girlish slenderness it met 
The night she made her bow to Lafayette. 
I seem to see you, little maid, today, 
Through all the years that stretch between, the 
way 

Your finger-tips upheld your pretty gown, 
Your soft cheeks flushed and sweet young eyes 

cast down. 
And did your heart beat hard and fast the while 
You dropped your timid curtsy ? Did he smile 

Upon the flushing cheek and downcast lid ? 
Oh, little Boston maid, I hope he did. 
I wonder if God kept you here to be 
A white-haired, placid woman, at your knee 

Your children's children pressing eager-eyed. 
To hear the story told ; or if you died 
Before this satin belt was stained by years. 
If someone softly laid it by, with tears? 

•Whose satin belt worn at the reception to Lafayette in 1824 
is among the relics at Mount Vernon. 



HELEN KELLER. 

Things there be too dim and misty 

For the sight, 
And God watching o'er this little 

Child of light, 
May have seen the blue eyes growing 

All too keen. 
Piercing through the clouds that cover 

The unseen. 
There are sounds — we do not hear them, 

You and I, 
But this wee one, looking upward 

To the sky, 
May have heard strange voices sounding 

In the air. 
And have felt the gentle breathing 

On her hair. 
So he pressed her eyes and left her 

In the dark. 
Touched the little ears, and made the 

Noises hark. 
There were words she mign.diave spoken. 

Best unsaid 
For awhile. His kind hand resting 

On her head 
Took the power of saying from her, 

Left a hush. 
As a little song is driven 

From a thrush. 
For a time all sound and vision 

Must not be, 
But within her tiny hand he 

Slipped a key. 



97 



Saying to the troubled baby 

"Do not cry, 
This will onen wondrous secrets 

By and by." 
Ah, the time has come. The portals 

Under guard, 
That we grope to reach, and find so 

Tightly barred, 
Open to her little fingers 

On the latch, 
Sounds and sights that we can never 

Hope to catch, 
Reach her with celestial clearness, 

Straight from One 
Who this little while had kept her 

From the sun. 



98 



THE CHILD. 

When Mary sang to him, I wonder if 
His baby hand stole softly to her lips, 

And, smiling down, she needs must stop her song 
To kiss and kiss again his finger-tips. 

I wonder if, his eyelids being shut. 
And Mary bending mutely over him, 

She felt her eyes, as mothers do today, 
For very depth of love grow wet and dim. 

Then did a sudden presage come to her 

Of bitter looks and words and thorn-strewn 
street ? 

And did she catch her breath and hide her face. 
And shower smothered kisses on his feet? 



L.ofC. 



99 



THE CHRIST-CHILD. 

On other days we see our risen Lord, 

Who sitteth at the hand of God, but when 

The year grows old, one blessed hour breaks, 
And unto us a child is born again. 

The three Wise Men we follow, see with them 
The whiteness of the night, and hear the strains 

Of music, not of earth ; a star shines out 
And marks a silver pathway o'er the plains. 

We find the dim-light manger, gaze upon 
One little face that lights up all about. 

Oh, Christmas Child, how dark must be that inn, 
Which had so many guests it shut thee out. 



100 



FOR THE CHRIST CHILD. 

We can fancy how He lay 
In her arms in baby way, 
Tiny, dimpled fingers curled 
Like the velvet petals furled 
In a rosebud tinted pink. 
Ah, what did the mother think 
When she cradled soft and warm 
In her arms His little form? 
Sweetest eyes the world has known 
Gazing back into her own 
Must have made them overbrim, 
She to have the care of Him ! 

Still we read and read again, 
How those wise, expectant men 
Came, star-guided, to the place 
Brightened by that young child-face. 
"Ah ! dear little Christ," we say, 
"Had our feet been shown the way 
To your resting-place, we too 
Would have brought fair gifts to you." 

Then the Lord Christ smiles, we know, 

Glad that we should love Him so. 

"Bring your little gifts to me ; 

I have need of them," saith He. 

"I would make my birthday fair 

For the children everywhere. 

If there be some over-sad, 

Search them out and make them glad. 

Change their tears to smiles. 'Twill be 

Just the same as done to me." 



101 



ON CHRISTMAS EVE. 

If I might hold the Christ-Child to my heart 
And touch with reverent hands the clustered 
hair 
About his forehead white and innocent, 

All earth and sky for me would grow more 
fair. 

But since his little face will not appear 

To mine that watches for it through the eve, 

I will hold fast some weary baby-face 
That others call unlovely, nor will grieve ; 

For nestling warm and fast the little head. 
And hushing with my kisses all its cries, 

The while I bend to watch it I shall find 
Another Child make answer through its eyes. 



103 



CHRISTMAS DAY. 

Boughs of evergreen and flashing holly, 
Chime of Christmas bells upon the air, 

Flying feet and little children's voices 
Making joyful music everywhere. 

Laughing mothers draw their children closer. 
But my heart is leaning out to you, 

Smileless ones, who hark to childish music 
Only in your wistful fancy, who 

Sit today with eyes too blurred for seeing 
How the scarlet holly clusters glow. 

With your souls too yearningly outreaching 
For the ones who just a year ago 

Made your world seem golden with their laughter. 

Everything is changed now — gray and dim ; 
Just last year you told the Christ Child's story. 

Now they spend their Christmas Day with him. 

And because his love is very tender, 

And the little ones are far away 
From the mothers wont to make so blissful 

All the flying hours of Christmas Day. 

I have fancied that he draws them closely 
To his side, some gift, a sweet surprise. 

Softly slipping in their childish fingers, 
While he smiles into their shining eyes. 



103 



CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 

I can see the mellow light 

Of that first glad Christmas night 

Breaking through the gloom and gray ; 
See the path the Wise Men took 
When that brilliant star forsook 
Its old course to lead the way. 

I can fancy the surprise 

In the cattle's meek brown eyes 

At the little stranger-guest ; 
Seem to see his child-face smile 
In the mother's eyes, the while 

She is singing him to rest. 

On the ground the snow lies white, 
On my hearth the wood-fire light 

Glows and dances, red and fleet. 
While I gaze out through the dark 
Of the evening time and hark 

For the music of his feet. 

He will come, I know, I know, 
Not as came he long ago 

To a manger set apart 
For his slumber, deep and still ; 
Nay, the little Christ-Child will 

Make his resting-place my heart. 



104 



AT CHRISTMAS TIME. 

No pictured form my eyes can satisfy, 
They cannot paint His child-face so that I 

Can scan it long, and say : "That must have 
been 
The look he wore — that little child for whom 
I read that long ago there was no room 

Within the inn." 

My words are weak as colors artists use. 
The smile upon the child-face I would lose 

By groping after words that cannot be. 
And yet — although the lights are low and dim. 
This Christmas Eve I have a glimpse of Him — 

My soul can see. 



105 



THE CHILD OF GALILEE. 

I think that song and sunshine made Him glad, 
As they do us, that quickly He grew sad 
At sight of some poor bird with broken wing, 
And if its song was hushed, He ceased to sing. 

Sometimes, in quiet mood, I fancy He 

Sweet confidences told at Mary's knee. 

There childish griefs, if such He had, grew less. 

Or fading out made room for happiness. 

He loved her much, and told her often, too, 

And she ? She pressed him close, as mothers do. 

I think when Joseph, wearied, turned to leave 
The hard day's toil behind him in the eve. 
He found a child-face smiling at the door. 
And murmured to himself that more and more 
The little God-lent Jesus grew in grace, 
Each day the lovelight sweeter in his face. 



106 



EASTER TIME. 

"Jonquil, Daffodil, Narcissus, 
Come, the sunshine waits to kiss us !" 

So the Crocus may have said, 
For they followed, buoyant-hearted, 
When the soft earth-covers parted 

And she raised her gentle head. 

Now, in all their Easter glory 
We can read their winter's story 

How they lay with fast-shut eyes, 
With the brown earth clasping, warming. 
While their wings unseen were forming 

For the day when they should rise. 

Just a change that seemed like dying, 
Just that little time of lying 

Sleep-bound, then the breaking sod 
For their rising, fair and tender. 
To this Easter morning's splendor, 

And the waiting: smile of God. 



107 



TO THE CROCUSES. 

I lay my cheek to the brown earth clod, 
To hear the word that you bring from God. 
This is the message, you dear, bright things. 
All of the winter through, your wings 
Waited, folded, till God's voice spoke. 
When undelaying and glad you broke 
Out from the brown earth's loosened hold 
Into the sunshine above the mold. 
Now those days in the darkness seem 
Vague, unpainful, like some dim dream. 

Oh, little faces, you bend and nod, 
And I look up to our Father God, 
So dear the message I read in you. 
Sweet Easter crocuses, gold and blue. 



108 



AWAKING. 

As the tender leaves, otitshaken 
From their winter cradles, waken 

To a world that seems to be 
From a heavy slumber broken. 
With a snow-flower for a token, 

Christ, dear Christ, awaken me. 

As with sound of softened laughter 
Fast the wakened brook runs after 

Garment-hem of Spring, may I 
Over hill and through the hollow 
With as buoyant courage follow 

After One that passes by. 



109 



A RESURRECTION. 

Purple clovers swayed and blew, 
Soft and fair the landscape grew 

Through its veil of early mist ; 
But I only laid my face 
To the grass above the place 

Where hers rested, long unkissed. 

Cool and fresh the tender spears 
Of the grasses. Last night's tears 

Lingered on them — ^wet my cheek. 
Someone surely must have wept 
In the darkness, that she slept 

Impotent to move or speak. 

Then the stir of wings I heard 
Over me, as if a bird 

Flying earthward made the sound ; 
And no more I watched to see 
Young eyes looking up to me 

Through the clover-dotted ground. 

But I lingered, hushed and glad, 
Feeling that the heavens had 

Drawn apart a little space 
For my seeing, till I knew 
That the green turf overgrew 

Just the semblance of her face. 



110 



MY HOPE. 

We know as mothers comfort, so does He, 

And when the moment comes you cannot see — 

The old earth sights and noises growing dim, 

You only grope in terror after Him, 

I think it will be with a tender clasp 

He'll take your hands or even let you grasp 

His own if longingly you feel for them. 

He will not make you touch His garment-hem. 

He knows you need a pressure warmer far. 

And as we feel the little children are 

All safely folded, so I think He will 

Hold very close the trembling ones until 

The bitterness of death is put aside, 

And they can see the mansions opened wide. 



Ill 



AN EASTER LONGING. 

They gazed upon the canvas long and deep, 
And saw the Christ, arisen from his sleep, 
In flowing robes that knew no spot or seam, 
And Mary smiling awed as in a dream. 

"And were his eyes so kind?" one whispered, 

"See 
The tender way they follow you and me !" 
Awhile they lingered hushed, then turned away, 
"The Lord is risen indeed," I heard them say. 

"Oh, living Christ," I murmured, "I who lack 
The painter's skill of hand, must I stand back 
And have no part in showing thou didst rise ? 
That look of tender yearning in thine eyes?" 

He led me in the Easter morning gray 
To one whose feet had faltered by the way. 
"Bid life return to Hope who now lies dead. 
And trampled Faith to rise on wings," he said. 
"The weary form hold close to thee, and then 
This Easter morning I shall rise again." 



WHERE IS THE BABY? 

"Baby, baby," sings a thrush, 
But no answer — just a hush, 
Broken by the brook's low moans 
As it hurries o'er the stones. 

Then the oak tree, tall and gray, 
Where the baby used to play, 
Tosses down an acorn-cup, 
Saying, "Baby, pick it up." 

Still the pretty daisies nod, 
Slender sprays of golden-rod 
From the steep embankment, send 
Sweet allurements as they bend. 

What, unnoticed ! All the day 
Must the flowers vainly sway, 
And, grown weary, stoop to look 
At their image in the brook? 

Over all the wood is peace. 
One by one the voices cease ; 
All the coaxing birds are dumb. 
For the baby does not come. 



U3 



CHILDREN'S DAY. 

In the trectops sing the robins, 
All their tender breasts aflame 

With the glory of the summer 
That in trailing garments came, 

Through the forest and the meadow, 
Dropping fragrance everywhere. 

Leaving here a dash of color, 
And a wave of music there. 

Ah, they cannot cease their singing; 

Little red breasts glow and thrill 
As a welcome, sweet and tender, 

To the little ones they trill. 

For this sunny day is sacred 

To our darlings, set apart 
For their coming to the One who 

Drew the children to his heart 

In a far-off Eastern country 

When he walked the ways of men. 

We have told our darlings often 
How the children nestled then 

On his bosom — how they loved b.im. 
Smiling softly at his touch ; 

They have listened, hushed and happy 
For they love him just as much. 

And their smiles are just as ready. 
And no trust more sweet could be, 

Just as rapt their little faces 
As those ones in Galilee. " 

114 



So today I love to fancy 

That his arm encircles them, 
And they "see his face" while we can 
Only touch His gamient-hem. 



115 



FOR CHILDREN'S DAY. 

There's a pleasant stir and flutter as the Southern 

breezes pass 
Over tangles of wild blossoms and the tassels of 

the grass. 
"Oh," the oxeye daisies murmur, with their faces 

all alight, 
"We are glad our eyes are golden and our petals 

are so white." 

With the last night's dewdrops clinging, like 

white jewels in their hair, 
Crimson clovers tossing softly make more sweet 

the summer air. 
All about them yellow sunshine ; overhead a sky 

of blue; 
"Oh," they whisper to each other, "aren't you 

very glad we grew ?" 

"Why," the Southern wind just pauses for a 

moment in its flight, 
"Why white daisies and red clovers, do you 

quiver with delight?" 
"Oh, because the children need us," oxeye daisies 

answer low, 
"And," the clovers murmur shyly, "and because 

they love us so." 

"They are coming soon to take us, and their little 

feet will fly. 
To the church whose pointed steeple reaches up 

into the sky. 
In the morning near the altar we shall hear the 

organ play. 
And the little children singing, for tomorrow's 

Children's Day." 



116 



THE CHILDREN'S DAY. 

I wonder what they do this Children's Day, 
Those httle young-faced angels passed away 
From mother-sight and mother-arms. Ah me ! 
I fain would know what Children's Day can be 
In that bright city where they go. Once more 
I scan those pages often read before. 
I see the little children, loved, caressed, 
And nestled with fond touches on his breast. 
I think he surely must have loved them much, 
Those little children, when he said of such 
His Father's Kingdom was to be, the while 
He answered look with look and smile with smile. 

I know he cannot change, but is today 
The same as yesterday. I know the way 
Is not less easy now for little feet 
Than when adown each Galilean street 
They gladly ran to meet him. Ah, I know, 
He holds them fast today, he loves them so. 
And then those little ones to you and me 
More near and dear than those of Galilee, 
Who took the sunshine with them when they 

passed 
Beyond our sight — he surely holds them fast. 

This Children's Day as sweetly on his breast 
The little, shy newcomers take their rest 
As those who feel his clasp no longer strange, 
Since many years ago they made the change 
From mother-arms to his. Our eyes are dim 
The while we listen to the children's hymn, 
Each missing some small voice or tender face, 



117 



Whose absence seems to leave an empty space 
Among the pahns and Hhes. Yet we wear 
A smile upon our faces, for most fair 
We know that Jesus makes this Children's Day 
For all the darlings who have passed away. 



118 



ON CHILDREN'S DAY. 

Last Children's Day two voices made for me 
The church one thrill of music. There could be 
No sweeter sounds, I thought, for me to hear 
Than those dear alto notes and treble clear. 

Young timid eyes the church aisles wandered 

through, 
Until, like little birds, upon the pew 
Where I was smiling back they settled down. 
Two eyes of sapphire blue and two of brown. 

A year has passed, and now they pity me. 
"So changed for her the Children's Day must be. 
The sunshine taken out, her heart," they say, 
"Must have a dreary ache this Children's Day." 

But still I smile and listen. Not more clear 
Is that sweet childish treble others hear 
Than one small alto voice whose tender tone 
Through distance coming reaches me alone. 

Not only eyes of sapphire blue seek mine. 
But two of lustrous darkness glow and shine. 
And when the tender children's prayer is said, 
I see the reverent bowing of a head 

With chestnut curls encrowned. No others see ; 
They think that only golden hair can be 
Within my vision now ; but still I know 
That Jesus Christ who loves the children so 



119 



Has let one darling leave her resting place 
Upon his bosom, that her childish face 
Might look in mine a moment, for not far 
Is that bright kingdom where God's children are. 



lao 



APR 8 1903 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 988 951 8 



